5 Years Ago:
I’m tense. I hate being tense.
My muscles are tight, my jaw hasn’t stopped clenching and grinding since I stepped in here, and I can’t seem to keep my eyes in one goddamn place, like I’m some sort of tweaker.
I fucking hate that I’m here, in his apartment where I know she’s been, but this is necessary. Just like the rest, it’s the only option, however self-serving I know that is.
“So do we have a deal or not.”
I want to finish this. I want to tie up this loose end and get the fuck out of this fucking apartment. I glare around at the tiny place - the threadbare couch along one wall with a coffee table that clearly also doubles as a dining room table, the single window that faces a brick wall, the shitty, disgusting, grungy kitchen.
The bed against the far wall that’s not even made.
The anger flashes like fire in my veins, imagining her being here.
With him.
I picture them eating some sort of shitty takeout food on that couch, maybe trading a guitar back and forth and riffing off each. In my gut-twisting imagination, he makes a big deal of going to his kitchen the size of my fifth avenue penthouse’s coat closet and grabbing her a beer.
I imagine them sharing that bed after, and for a second I almost lose my shit completely.
Breathe.
I close my eyes for a second, thumb and forefinger pinching my nose as I let the breath out slowly.
“Garret.”
I open my eyes and narrow them at him - him, with his stupid fucking man-bun, his goddamn beanie, and the one-size-too-small T-shirt. I want to get this over with. I want to tie this one off and get the fuck out of here before I do something that’ll warrant a lawsuit.
“Do we have a deal.”
Garret - professional singer-writer-slash-barista Garret and alternately known as Ana’s current boyfriend - frowns, looking at the floor between us. In his own little world of pretending he’s John fucking Mayer at every open mic night in the city or frothing the perfect triple nonfat latte for some blushing NYU co-ed, Garret is probably a confident, charming guy.
But I’ve stepped into that world, and I’ve made it abundantly clear how little I think his world is. I’ve walked into Garret’s little life in full rich-asshole glory - purposely so. I drove down here to his garbage neighborhood in the Lower East Side in a $1.5 million Bugatti. I’m wearing a suit that costs about six months of his rent. I’m talking to him like he’s an employee.
And I’m offering him more money than he has and ever will see in his entire shitty, mediocre, clichéd, hipster life.
He takes a breath, pulling his beanie off and running his fingers through his long hair.
“I don’t know, man.”
“Yes, you do.”
I’m standing over him, holding the check out between two fingers.
“You do know. Take the money, Garret. Take the money, take the deal, and stop pretending this is a hard choice for you. It’s not Oscar season.”
His eyes flash something as he glares up at me, like he wants to fight me on this a little, even if we both know his mind was made up the second I named the price.
Good, let him think he’s fighting me. Just like Josh Stedman. Just like Jason. It just makes it all the more satisfying and me all the more vindicated when they break.
It’s proof they never deserved her.
Garret’s brows knit.
“Look, what’s your deal here, bruh?”
Bruh.
I grind my teeth.
“My deal is what I’ve offered.”
“No, I mean, what’s your deal?” He frowns in puzzlement, looking up at me in his stupid ripped jeans and too-tight T-shirt. “You love her or something?”
I tense even tighter, forcing my face to stay neutral as the words send something twisting through me.
“It doesn’t concern you. Take the offer.”
I don’t love Texas, this is just about control. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself. Repeatedly. It’s a mantra that plays through my head when I find myself specifically seeking out long-legged, B-cup redheads for single nights of fantasy. It’s what I tell myself when I lean my head back, close my eyes, and pretend it’s her throat I’m pumping my cum down, not a stranger who has a passing resemblance to her.
I don’t love Anastasia Bell because loving her - or anything - would make me more human than I might be capable of being.
I wave the check disdainfully in front of Garret’s face.
“Don’t think. Just take it.”
He does, of course.
They all do.
“I’ll know, Garret, if you go back on our deal. No calls. No showing up where she’s going to be. You end contact, tonight. Delete her number, forget her address. Nod if you understand.”
He does.
And he looks like he wants to look glum, but then, I’m betting he’s having a hard time with that emotion when he’s holding a check with that many zeroes in his hands.
I turn, buttoning my jacket again as I see myself the six steps to his front door. My hand’s on the knob when I see it - silver, sparkling, tacky, and familiar - laying on the table next to the door.
I glance back at Garret, who’s still staring at the check in his hands before I pluck Ana’s cowboy boot pendant necklace from his side table and drop it into my breast pocket. I tell myself it’s to be sure there’s no loose ends for her here - nothing for him to lure her back here with.
The truth is, I take it because it’s hers.
The door to Garret’s shitty, small, meaningless apartment and his small, meaningless life shuts behind me. Another chapter of hers that I finish. Another string that I pull.
I know what this is. I know what all of them have been, deep down.
If she’s not mine, she won’t be anyone’s.
* * *
Present:
I find her on her hands and knees, panting, straining, sweat trickling down the nape of her neck.
It’s not what you think.
In the fantasy version of this, it’d be my bed she’s kneeling on. In the fantasy, she’s wearing ludicrously expensive crotchless lingerie, and she’s got her fingers wrapped around my thick cock.
…Not a tulip bulb.
Out in the real world, and not my filthy fantasy, Ana’s on her hands and knees in the flowerbeds to the west of the house. She’s wearing dirty, ripped jean shorts and a cotton tank top, rather than the custom made black lace and diamond lingerie from Paris I’ve come up with in my head.
She is wearing a thong though, that I can see as she strains her arms out, her body stretching as she reaches for her garden trowel - cotton, white and pale blue stripes. Underwear sticking out the back of a girl’s pants isn’t usually something I find attractive. On Ana, it makes me want to shred it off with my fucking teeth and fuck her right here in the tulip beds.
“I like you in this position.”
She whirls, eyes wide as she yanks the headphone buds out of her ears.
Pink, with little clips that hook over the back of her ears. Apparently this girl still can’t just use the white Apple ones like literally everyone else.
She shields her eyes from the sun behind me and then scowls up at me as she realizes who it is. Her freckled cheeks are kissed rosy by the sun, a lock of her hair sticks to her forehead, and she’s got dirt on her neck. It’s a far cry from the opulent diamonds and lace, silk and satin fantasy.
My dick doesn’t seem to notice.
Because even dirty, sweaty, and scowling, Anastasia Bell makes me fucking hard.
Or it could be that she’s on her knees in front of me. It could be that I can see her nipples poking through the thin cotton of her tank top. It could be that seeing her like that, chest rising and falling with her labored breath, her long legs glistening with sweat, her sweet, pouty lips pursed tight like they’re daring me to pry them open with my tongue - it could be that all of those things make me want to slide my hand into her messy hair and guide that sweet mouth onto my cock.
“What do you want, Bastian.”
You, on your back, with your knees over my shoulders, begging me for more as you come all over my balls.
I frown at her and clear my throat.
“You do realize you don’t have to keep gardening right? I thought we’d established that.”
“That you lied to me and threatened me with firing my father in order to get me to pull some sort of shady, probably illegal inheritance scam?” She smiles thinly. “Yeah, I think we got that straight.”
“It isn’t a scam, it’s my fucking mon—”
I stop, clenching my jaw and glaring right back at her.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Gardening.”
She turns away from me, and I’d maybe be a bit more pissed off about that if her doing so didn’t present that tight little denim-clad ass with the little blue and white striped thong still poking out the top.
An image of her in this exact position, with the panties and the shorts tangled at her knees as I crouch over her and sink every inch of myself inside of her comes to mind. I growl lowly, clearing it from my head.
Get your shit in line.
I decide to blame the fact that I haven’t had a drink yet today on my inability to keep myself focused. I blame the seven-month dry spell on not being able to take my eyes off her ass or my thoughts off of claiming her body in every conceivable way.
“I actually like gardening, you know,” she says it still facing away from me. “So, jokes on you I guess.”
“Whatever gets you wet.”
I have no idea why I insist on talking to her like this. I have no idea why I insist on reverting back to being this juvenile jerk-off around her when I’m usually quite charming with women.
Well, you know, more charming than this at least.
Ana turns and wrinkles her nose. “You don’t have to be disgusting all the time, you know.”
“I’m not. I just plan my moments around you.”
She ignores me, going back to her planting.
I clear my throat again, taking a seat on the old wrought-iron bench on the edge of the garden plot behind her, my eyes still on her ass.
“You’re planting now?”
She nods, her back to me.
“It’s late August.”
“Very perceptive, Bastian.”
I grin to myself at her need to needle me right back.
“I thought flowers got planted in the spring time. April showers bring May flowers, all that shit.”
She sighs exasperatedly, sitting up and resting on her heels. She turns, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and leaving a little streak of dirt.
“They’re tulip bulbs.”
I shrug.
“You don’t know much about planting, do you?”
“I know I’ve got eight figures in my bank account.”
She rolls her eyes as she shakes her head and looks away.
“You’re not using your cane.”
I’m intrigued that she caught that.
“I decided the Monopoly man look wasn’t for me.”
I catch the smile on the side of her face before she turns to hide it. She goes back to digging little holes, sticking the bulbs in and covering them again.
“So, I’m going to need you to sign some papers later.”
She sighs again like I’m interrupting her from something as she sits up again and turns to me.
“What sort of papers?”
“Papers that make our little arrangement look more legitimate.”
“I’m not going to commit fraud, Bastian.” She glares at me, jabbing the little garden trowel at me. “And you can save your breath because money isn’t going to buy that from me. End of story.”
“Calm down. There aren’t any legally binding papers about being engaged, these are just documents that back up the claim. A catering company deposit contract, some blood-work medical records.” I shrug. “A prenuptial agreement.”
“Covering your ass even from a sham marriage?”
“Can’t be too careful, Texas.”
“You realize you’re saying this to the girl who you drove away and who you lured back, right?”
Our eyes meet, holding the moment before she looks away.
“I have to get back to this.”
“Tonight then, I’ll—”
“I’ll sign the stupid papers, Bastian. But I am not going to lie for you.”
“Relax.” I stand. “Like I said, it’s all above the level, so don’t get your fucking panties in a twist.”
“My panties are just fine, thanks.”
I smile as I turn, reaching for a smoke and putting it between my lips.
“Agreed.”
I light it and turn to flash her a thin smile, just as she rolls her eyes and turns back to her planting.
“Nautical stripes is a good look on you.”
She whirls, her face bright red and her mouth open wide as she reaches back to yank the bottom hem of her tank down over her shorts. I just grin, filing that image of her on her knees with her mouth open wide away, and stalk back to the house.
I can tell myself this is all fun and games, but at the end of the day, I know I’m still doing what I’ve always done with her.
Pulling the strings.
Lying.
Chasing the control like a drug.
What I did to Ana those years ago at the graduation party was fucked up, but I did it anyway. I did it because it had to be me, not anyone else. I did it knowing she’d hate me for it but swallowing that price for what it was.
Funny that nine years later, I still feel like I’m paying for it.